Other things we can leave behind. The Black Man is, gone. My voice sounds different to me now, bolder, stronger. There is a note in it which, if I listen carefully, I can almost recognize. A note of defiance, even of glee. My fears are gone. You too are gone, Maman, though I will always hear you speaking to me. I need no longer be afraid of my face in the mirror. Anouk smiles in her sleep. I could stay here, Maman. We have a home, friends. The weathervane outside my window turns, turns. Imagine hearing it every week, every year, every season. Imagine looking out of my window on a winter's morning. The new voice inside me laughs, and the sound is almost like coming home. The new life inside me turns softly, sweetly. Anouk talks in her sleep, nonsense syllables. Her small hands clench against my arm.
`Please.’ Her voice is muffled by my jumper. 'Maman, sing me a song.’
She opens her eyes. The Earth, seen from a great height, is the same blue-green shade. `OK.’
She closes her eyes again, and I begin to sing softly:
Hoping that this time it will remain a lullaby. That this time the wind will not hear. That this time – please, just this once – it will leave without us.
About the Author
JOANNE HARRIS is the author of six other novels: Sleep, Pale Sister; Chocolat; Blackberry Wine; Coastliners; Holy Fools; and Gentlemen and Players; a short story collection, Jigs & Reels; and two cookbook-memoirs, My French Kitchen and The French Market. Half French and half British, she lives in England.
